Life And Life Only
by fitz and dizzyspells
Summary: Darrel Curtis should be thanking God for small favors. Mainly, he should be thanking God that he doesn't know the man who killed his folks. ONESHOT. Rated for my filthy mouth and violence.


This is a piece of a fanfiction, and with that said, I do not own any of S.E. Hinton's characters, nor do I own the lyrics to It's Alright, Ma.

I had a whole team help me on this one. Thanks to my lovely betas, Some Blue December, RileysMomma and Hahukum Konn for their input and patience with me!

I feel I should give a fair warning: Rated for my filthy mouth and explicit themes.

If you have any questions, leave a review or PM me! - Ana

* * *

He not busy being born is busy dying - Bob Dylan; It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)

"_There's been an accident," he's told. "We found two I.D.s in the man's pocket and the woman's purse" He can see it as if it's right in front of him, the purse – about as wide as his palm and as long as the tip of his fingers to the middle of his forearm; gold l_amé _with a thin chain link. He bought it for her for her birthday. "Is this a relative we're speaking with?"_

"_Yes," he says. "This is." Then, from the bottom of his throat, he says, "Are they…?" _

_He doesn't bring himself to finish the sentence. There is no need for coherence in the face of cataclysm. _

_He drops the phone and tries to gather himself to rush out the door for the hospital._

x_  
_

The Chicxulub crater is about 100 feet in diameter, and when a piece of molten rock hit that point some 65 million years ago, it released the equivalent of 100,000,000 megatons of TNT. The chances of an asteroid like Chicxulub hitting the Earth again are slim, but not impossible. The chances of being faced with a .22 caliber bullet projected by a mix of fire and powder out the barrel of a pistol are much higher.

Give or take the amount of powder in the gun, a .22 caliber bullet travels about 2300 feet per second. At point-blank range, the chances of surviving are probably about as slim as being crushed by an asteroid. But, hoo, buddy, when and if that does happen, you'd best get down on your knees and pray to your god that you somehow survive.

.22 magnums are pretty multipurpose. They can be used for game, for target practice, and even to commit a crime of passion. Imagine it:

x

A man on his way home from the bar, very aware that his wife is in the saddle of her golf caddy. His wife is only 27 and the man she's in bed with is about 18. His wife thinks he is out of town on business. She has no idea that he's only fifteen minutes away, sitting behind the wheel of his car, an unloaded pistol in the glove box.

The man, he's pretty soused. He's brown-bagging a bottle of straight whiskey, forgetting that he hates Jim Beam, but he's not big on his wife riding some pimply-faced kid, either.

Since he's soused, he's going a lot faster than he should be. He doesn't pay enough attention to the road because he's too busy staring at the case of shells next to him, the ones that usually sit on the top shelf of his closet so that his two-year old son doesn't reach them.

He's headed toward an intersection and he misses the traffic light, which is changing from yellow to red.

He never stops. Shoots right through and causes an oncoming green sedan to swerve out of the way and just miss him.

This is how the man and woman, forty-years old, die. They narrowly avoid the man in the Jaguar and lose control of their car. The wheels skim over a slick patch of water, causes the car to fishtail into a pole and cave the roof in. Within a matter of minutes, the woman is dead.

The man in the Jaguar hardly looks back. He simply thanks God for small favors, never seeing the green sedan wrap itself around an electric pole as he safely rounds a corner.

He glances over at the case of bullets by his side, reaches out and pats the sleek metal case.

He's only five minutes away now.

x

The woman is pronounced dead on the scene. She is found ten feet from the car, her body having been propelled out the windshield by the force of the crash. The man's leg is out the window. He has a slow, unsteady pulse.

At about quarter-to-one Officer Jack Horn makes a phone call to the Curtis house where a twenty-year old boy is stumbling in from a long night out. The boy is just a little bit soused. He kicks off his shoes, plops down on the couch and heaves a sigh at the ceiling. He's starting to sober up and in the morning his head will probably smart pretty good.

Just as he lies down, the phone rings. He answers and the voice on the other line begins to describe the scene.

Darrel is frozen, the phone plastered to his ear, though he'd very much like to pull it away. This is the punch to the gut, the cold hand around his neck. He cuts the officer off, hangs up the phone and begins a frantic hunt for his shoes. His wallet? What about the keys? Where are the goddamn keys? Jesus H. Christ, where _are_ they?

He runs to the kitchen, pats himself down and hears a faint jingle. They're in his pocket, and he realizes that he just wasted precious time. He doesn't even think to wake up his brothers as he gets in his car and peels out of the driveway.

x

Julian Dreyfus is pulling into his driveway. It's nearly pitch dark outside, but in the grid of unlit windows of his house, he sees one light on toward the back.

He spits out the window, cuts the engine and reaches into the glove box where he finds a small pistol, cold and metallic. He likes the way it feels. It's heavy and smooth with slick grooves in the side for his fingers to rest and contemplate.

Opening the front door as quietly as possible, he skips over the "welcome" mat, which rests over a creaky floorboard. There's a moment's pause, a small grip of fear, where he feels as if they know he's there. Then he hears his wife's familiar giggle and heavy footsteps above him.

Julian Dreyfus thinks to himself, _Scotty O'Rourke, you dumb sonuvabitch, I am going to beat you within an inch of your life. _

He sticks his hand in his pocket and wraps his fingers around the smooth grooves of the gun. He likes the way it feels, metal to skin, finger to trigger.

x

Darrel Curtis pulls into the hospital parking lot and takes up two spaces. He doesn't notice this, nor does he realize that he's left his keys in the ignition.

Fuck the car. Anyone can have it if someone will just tell him that they're okay.

He runs into the waiting room, runs to the nurse at the attendance desk and says (almost yells it), "My parents. They called – I mean you called. The hospital did. There's been an accident. Where are they?"

The nurse looks at him, eyes moving with a mechanical swiftness. She determines his kind: desperate, confused and maybe even angry. She's seen this type a million time before.

"Names?"

The nurse: She's fairly young. Her hair is pulled back into a tight, orderly bun that makes the skin around her forehead go taut. She's petite and small-framed, but none of this stops her from making the boy feel small. The way she looks at him in her starched white scrubs, her eyebrows plucked into high, suspicious arches, tells him that she sees him every day. She is blinded by death, ambulance sirens, the tragedy of it all. She is no longer susceptible to its damage.

"_Names_?" she says again.

He can't _remember_ their names. They're Mom and Dad. He can remember them collectively as Mom and Dad, bickering in the kitchen past midnight about in-laws and bills. He can picture them as separate entities: Mom sitting at the piano, playing effortlessly, though none of them can ever quite play the way she does. He can picture Dad at the kitchen table cheating at solitaire.

But their names. What are their names?

"Curtis," he sputters. "Uh – Darrel. Darrel and Roberta."

The nurse turns, the heels of her tennis shoes squeaking as she does, and begins to flip through a filing cabinet for god knows how long.

"Still in surgery."

Darrel looks at the woman who is not much older than him and shakes the sudden urge to reach across the counter and strike her, to grab her by the shoulders and hit her. Anything to make her understand how very much he hates her.

"Where do I go?"

x

Julian Dreyfus stands outside of his bedroom, his hand on the crystal doorknob. In his mind he rehearses. _Where should I put it? Your goddamn neck? Head? _

He thinks that he'll enjoy this very much.

Julian Dreyfus opens the door, takes the pistol out of his pocket and pets the slick grooves where his fingers rest. He looks at his wife whose head is thrown back, a seductive look slowly changing to one of dry terror.

He looks at her. Completely naked except for a tiny piece of negligee that just barely covers her cooch, her hair in a ruffled bun. He takes it all in, how her chest is still thrown out and her legs are still spread and says, "You little cunt."

He walks over to the bed, wraps his free hand around Maryann's blonde hair and yanks her head back. He smiles at the tiny "_ow_" that escapes her lips.

But the plan. He has to stick to his plan.

He throws his wife down on the bed and looks at the skinny boy standing near the bedside table, stripped down to his briefs. For a minute, all he can do is take the kid in, the same way he took his wife in. Red hair, tan, well built, far too young to be in this situation. He's shaking like his insides just froze over. Julian almost feels bad for Scotty O'Rourke, but then he remembers that this is the boy who's been fucking his wife for a little over a year, and with that in mind, he takes the pistol and hits it against the boy's head and draws a small amount of blood.

Maryann claps her hands over her mouth and screams, apparently too terrified to cry. Julian points the gun to her and says, "You shut the fuck up."

He wraps his hand around the back of O'Rourke's neck and pushes the kid downstairs to the parlor where he sticks the barrel of the pistol in the boy's mouth.

"Know how fast a .22 travels, son?"

O'Rourke shakes his head. His eyes are swollen from crying, snot running down his nose in a thick gooey ooze. "Oh fuck," he says. "Oh Jesus fuck."

Julian pulls the trigger.

Satisfaction plays at his lips as O'Rourke draws back in terror, anticipating his premature death.

For a few seconds he lets O'Rourke relive the anxiety and wonder what to expect next. Then he slowly withdraws the gun from the kid's mouth and balls his hand into a fist, driving it into O'Rourke's stomach.

The boy keels over at his feet. Julian takes a kick at the kid's nuts and watches him squirm. Then he moves over to the couch, sits down, and stares from the kid to his pistol with a mild satisfaction.

He asks once more: "Do you know how fast it takes a .22 to travel out the barrel of a gun?"

O'Rourke doesn't answer. He's curled on the floor, his head bleeding from where Julian hit him, but otherwise relatively unscathed.

"Look at me," Julian tells him. He's changed his tone. It's the tone he uses when he talks to his son, when his son has done the Bad Thing. It's calm, smooth, collected, and you can almost hear him say, "_Jay, why did you do what your mama and I said not to do?" _

O'Rourke slowly turns his head and Julian can see that he's stopped crying.

Julian leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the way he does when he talks to his two-year old. He feels bad for O'Rourke in way, but all the same, he walked into this. "I've got a whole case of bullets in my car and I was going to use them kill you tonight. I didn't. _But_ I won't hesitate to put a whole round in your head if I ever see you any place near here or my wife. Understand?"

Scotty O'Rourke nods and sniffles. He straightens himself out on floor, where he sits staring at his briefs. A dark stain is beginning to spread as urine trickles down his legs. A few minutes later Julian comes back with O'Rourke's clothes and leaves him to get dressed.

Julian goes upstairs and finds his wife lying on the bed, crying. He wraps his fist in her hair again, letting a few strands fall into her face and slaps her. He beats her, careful to avoid her face and neck and then he rapes her.

x

Darrel Curtis is told to wait in a room outside of Post-Op. He is told to wait, and wait, and wait. Occasionally, a nurse comes by and once he grabs one by the shoulder, forgetting that he might be hurting her in the process.

He looks at her and says, "My parents are in that fucking room, and for Christ's sake, all you can do is tell me to wait in here until the doctor comes out? For Christ's holy sake, how long do I have to wait around? What kind of hospital _is_ this?"

He can't help himself for the outburst. It's the maddening neutrality of the place, the clinical passiveness of it all. Doctors and nurses pass by him all the time, without looking up even once. They stare at their feet, at the walls in front of them or the clipboards in their hands, but not once do they make eye-contact with him. They're too afraid to.

"Are they going to be all right?" Darrel tries to lower his voice, now very aware of the 10 or 15 other people in the room who are all staring at him.

"I don't have that information," the nurse says. She gives him the same look as the first nurse. He is nothing new, nothing of any particular interest, and certainly nothing of any importance to her. "Now please, _sir_ -" She adds a sardonic emphasis on the sir. "Sit down. The doctor will be out shortly."

By the time the doctor comes in, the sky has turned an industrial gray. Dawn is just rising as the doctor walks up to Darrel, staring at his surgically clean Keds. He raises his hand like he might touch Darrel's shoulder, but then decides against it and lowers his hands again. "I'm sorry."

The doctor is not sorry, or at least he's not sorry for the boy. He's sorry because this is uncomfortable and painful for _him _and he has to think back to the two rules he learned in medical school: People die. Doctors can't change that.

But the boy isn't aware of these rules. All he knows is that the doctor can't honestly be talking to him; he must be talking about someone else's loved one.

The doctor isn't lying though, and his words travel at 2300 feet per second, like two bullets.

This is the gun pointing toward him, waiting to snuff out that last bit of light, release a mixture of fire and gunpowder and project a bullet travelling at 2300 feet per second. There will be no rebound after this.

Darrel Curtis doesn't know who Julian Dreyfus is, and maybe it's better that way. All he knows is that his parent's car slid out of control.

In a kind of ironic way, Darrel Curtis should be thanking God for small favors. Mainly that he doesn't know about the man who killed his folks.


End file.
